i found the cure to growing old
by BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: Sometimes, Phil thinks he's too old for this shit. in which everyone's a teacher; the kids are punks, Hydra Prep is edging onto their level of excellence, and there's a rumor going around that the school is in danger of being shut down. Just another week at Shield Academy.
1. prologue

**excerpt from Shield Academy's brochure (2013)**

Shield Academy, founded in 1945 by Margaret Carter and Howard Stark, is a college preparatory school for the academically gifted. Teachers are selected from a pool of the most talented, from across the globe. Students are educated in many advanced fields such as biochemistry, metaphysics, computer engineering, communications, as well as one of the leading liberal arts programs in the nation.

**excerpt from anonymous blog, detailing the rivalry between Shield Academy and Hydra Prep (2007)**

Hydra Preparatory, founded in 1931 by Johann Schmidt (who is rumored to have been a Nazi sympathizer), is known as the underbelly of the academic world—at least in the tri-state area. Consistently producing sociopaths and psychopaths who, if not eventual arrested for some brutal crime, go on to head some of the biggest Fortune-500 companies on the Eastern seaboard.

Their quarrel with Shield Academy, the only other rigorous academic college preparatory in the area that is equal to Hydra, is well known and well documented. Spanning decades, their students have always found ways to antagonize and one up their counterparts. When Shield opened at a coed school, Hydra pushed through new regulations to allow female students to enroll at a discounted tuition. When Hydra won the championship football game in 1999, Shield students vandalized the school and stole their mascot, an octopus named, in a move of startling originality, Hydra. Hydra the cephalopod was never seen again. With Hydra alum Grant Ward ('01) joining Shield's faculty (see: /hydra-betrayal) this coming year is sure to be interesting.

Stay tuned.


	2. Chapter 1

**disclaimed.**

**so theres a lot of back and forth between "BEFORE" and "AFTER" so sorry and have fun!**

**thanks xoxo**

* * *

**...**

* * *

Friday, April 25th, 2014

From: sspcoulson

To: sshsfaculty , ssmsfaculty , sslsfaculty , ssadministration

Subject: LOCKDOWN

Enact protocols seven, three, and thirty. Hydra hacked us. Sensitive data leaked. Unnecessary personnel has been asked to leave campus until we get a handle on this. Fury has been compromised.

* * *

From: sssward

To: sspcoulson  
Bcc: ssgward , ssjsimmons , sslfitz , ssmmay

Subject: RE: LOCKDOWN

How bad?

* * *

From: sspcoulson

To: sssward

Subject: RE: RE: LOCKDOWN

No more emails. They may have breached the secure server. Text me.


	3. Chapter 2

**disclaimed**

* * *

Wednesday, September 17th, 2014

...

"Fitz, could you help me for a moment? In the lounge?"

His class giggles, and a few boys whistle in the back, to which Fitz responds with an order to read chapter four of their texts before following her out of the classroom. "The copy's jammed again," Jemma begins, keeping a brisk pace. "I thought you might be able to, ah—?"

He's already rolling up his sleeves.

The teacher's lounge is mostly empty, but Skye looks up from her laptop and grins when they walk in. "Hey, lovebirds," she greets, back to staring at the screen in front of her. "Ward just called down to maintenance."

"Well, tell him to cancel the call," Fitz grumbles, lowering himself to the ground and peering at the opened up machine. "Save Billy the time."

"Didn't Coulson tell you to stop messing with school property?"

"I'm not _messing_ with it—," Jemma reaches out towards him as he grouses, patting his head a tad awkwardly. She knows how he gets when Skye provokes him. "I'm _improving_."

"Well," Skye compromises, "I'll call maintenance, but if you think that thing is going to blow, I need fifteen seconds warning, _at least_." She adds as an afterthought, "And if Coulson finds out about this, I was not here to witness it."

Fitz ignores her, but Jemma makes a point to nod her consent to the terms, even though they all know that Coulson won't believe any of them.

Whatever.

Jemma's got a class that begins in twenty minutes and one hundred and forty copies to make, so she'll take her chances.

...

The copier doesn't explode—the puff of black smoke it expelled was only an excess of ink Fitz promises a wary Skye, who sits clutching her laptop to her chest, ready to escape the room at a moment's notice.

"I swear to god, Fitz if that shit blows up—."

"He's done!" Jemma exclaims, smiling brightly at her friend. "Aren't you, Fitz?"

"Almost. I just have to—." He grunts in surprise, and even before he stands Jemma can see the ink stain spreading across the front of his shirt. "Done," he adds sheepishly.

Ward wanders in then, eyes on the stack of papers in his hands, tapping a red pen on the corner. He stops briefly to kiss the crown of his wife's head before continuing on to coffee machine. He's nearly done making his drink when he glances up. "What the hell?"

"Simmons needed—."

"The copy machine—."

"I _told _them it'd be a bad idea—."

"Didn't Coulson tell you to stop messing with school property?"

"That's what I said!" Skye grins smugly at the ink-stained man, dancing out of the room singing, "Told you so!"

"Wait—," Ward calls after her, to be responded to with a distant, "Got a class, I'll see you later!"

Fitz turns to Jemma then, and asks, only half-jokingly, "What does she even teach?"

"Advanced tech. And art." Ward stares at the door longingly, his face too much like a puppy's for the pair to not laugh. It's like he doesn't go home with her or something. There is silence; one beat, two, three, and then Ward jogs out.

The remaining two stare at each other for a moment, before Fitz offers, "I can help with the copies, yeah?" Grinning, Jemma lunges forward and kisses his cheek.

...

Phil finds the metaphysics class—_period two, tenth grade, high level, where the hell is Fitz?_—unattended. They aren't doing anything; it looks like one of the girls appointed herself leader and is seated at the front, eyes flicking up from her textbook every few moments to survey the class. No one's bleeding or crying or having sex. But—still.

Continuing down the hallway, he passes Skye and Ward, talking quietly in front of the lockers. "Hey boss man," she greets, leaning away from her husband for the moment.

"Fitz?" He'd usually stop to talk, but—priorities. Skye jerks her thumb down the hall, towards the teacher's lounge, and he continues on, glancing into the windows of the other classrooms.

Nat is teaching her class some type of yoga, when they should really be practicing conjugations, but—battles. Pick your battles, Phil. The fact that he ignores it has everything to do with that, and nothing to do with the sneaking suspicion he has that Natasha could kill him, if she wanted to.

Melinda's study hall is studying, which is expected. He has yet to meet a student that would willfully disobey Melinda May, but he figures that one day there will be, and he'll probably end up hiring the kid at some point. Because _he _wouldn't even want to cross Melinda, and he's the principal.

Barton's—dancing? Teaching? Who knows! Not his problem, today, Phil decides. Maybe tomorrow. And then—

the lounge.

Back before, when Fury was still principal, there had been a rule about admin being blocked from the lounge. But then everything happened with Hydra, and Nick left, and Phil found it prudent to do away with the rule. He was running Shield now, and needed to know his teachers and have his teachers know him.

The lounge isn't pretty—the school is filthy rich, but the money is funneled right back into the students; new programs keep being added and new technology demanded, so a new microwave for the lounge isn't exactly top priority. And Fitz keeps taking it upon himself to update everything anyway, so it's—it's fine.

The coffee stains on the wall are fine.

Speaking of Fitz—Phil finds him attached to Simmons's side, dutifully holding a stack of papers for her as she makes her copies. "You've got a class?" he reminds, folding his arms, only a little cross. They're like bunny rabbits, those two. Science bunny rabbits. With matching sweater sets.

Fitz looks up, startled, "Oh, ah, yes, sir. But Shelley's good, supervising and all—."

That's when Phil notices the ridiculous ink stain on his shirt.

"Did you mess with the copy machine?"

He might be shrieking. Maybe he's shrieking.

But that shit cost six hundred dollars the school really didn't have, and if that Scottish grump broke it—.

"Why does everyone say I _mess_ with things? I don't mess—," Fitz starts indignantly.

"No, of course you don't Fitz," Simmons soothes, hand on his arm. "You improve them."

"It's—," Phil splutters. "You've got ink all over your shirt, your class is unattended—!"

"Shelley!"

"Shelley is fifteen."

"Sixteen, actually," Simmons supplies.

Phil sighs.

Pick your battles.

"How many more copies?"

Fitz looks to Simmons. "Thirty, sir," she blurts, only kept from squeaking by sheer willpower.

"I—." He really should reprimand them. Write them up or something. But—

science bunnies. Woodland creatures. It might be illegal to yell at woodland creatures. Sighing, Phil settles on this. "Finish the copies. I'll give a pop quiz on…chapter three?"

"And four." Fitz looks intensely relieved—_like I could actually do anything,_ Phil thinks, only a little bitter. They're really very cute.

He leaves them to it—almost double backs when he hears them start talking in rapid half-sentences, because, like, how _cool_ would it be to study them—but then he reminds himself that they're not actually fluffy animals, but people (supposedly adults).

He continues on. The class only hates him a little when he barges in and announces the quiz.


	4. Chapter 3

**this is pure crack i have no excuses**

**disclaimed**

* * *

Friday, September 19th, 2014

* * *

Phil is going to fucking die.

Stark let his seventh graders set a table on fire. In the middle of the motherfucking goddamn pick up loop. On Phil's hydrangeas. His fucking _hydrangeas_. _On fire. _And, like, he can't hurt the kids? Because they're literally twelve, but he sure as hell can hurt Stark.

He's going to have a fucking heart attack.

"What the—?!" Melinda follows him out, and he hears the science bunnies chattering somewhere behind them. God, everyone's going to see this. It's in the middle of the goddamn _pick up loop. _

He shudders to think about what will happen if it makes the news. What if Hydra gets a hold of the story? What if the _board_ does? He starts planning his letter of resignation.

"_Stark_!" His voice has hit an octave that, until now, he was unaware existed.

"Hey, Boss," Stark starts, whirling around. The students freeze because, angry principal, you know? At least they're afraid of him. Stark just levels this shit eating grin at him, and—Melinda's—

Melinda might be growling, but that also might just be him. He's going to _kill_ Stark.

Stepping in front of the fire—like that's going to hide it—Tony Stark grins widely and raises his hands, placating, "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you set _my hydrangeas on fire!_"

"Woah, okay, I think dogs everywhere just cringed—."

"Anthony Stark—!"

"Okay, yes, it seems that this is exactly what it looks like. But look! Fire safety!" He points behind him. There's a thirteen year old that looks about seven covered in what look like pot holders, holding a fire extinguisher. The school is getting shut down, for sure.

Fucking shit.

Phil squeezes the bridge of his nose. He can actually feel wrinkles forming. Gray hairs growing. He's going to die. "What the hell is the meaning of this?"

Stark grins again—oh, he totally thinks he's getting away with this; where the hell is Vic, she's better at yelling at people—and, "Teaching the kids about combustible materials. Very educational."

"Combustible—?!"

He's sputtering.

_Sputtering._

Melinda tugs him away, steps in front, and Phil sees Stark flinch. Good. Vic comes running up, then, and she's fucking fuming and Stark's dead. Totally dead. The pot-holder kid extinguishes the flames and runs for it when he sees Head Security Officer Hand charging him. Smart kid.

When Melinda spots Vic, she steps away and steers him back towards the admin building. He can hear Stark rambling behind him, can hear a shriek, and he glances back just in time to see the seventh graders scattering, scrambling for cover, sees Victoria twisting Stark's ear and dragging him away and then—

that's sort of when everything goes to shit.

**...**

Once the firemen leave, teachers start leading their kids back to class, and Phil sits among the ruins of his garden. Natasha pats his head affectionately and leaves to help Vic drag He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named down to the security office.

Skye materializes next to him and Phil only spares a glance before he resumes staring at his burnt flowers in abject horror and grief. It took him six years for them to look so good.

Six.

Years.

His _fucking hydrangeas. _Of all things. What if he sets Stark's—no. Arson is a felony. But—

_his fucking hydrangeas._

"May told me to bring you in when you started to look like you were about to cry." Phil stares at Skye. "You look like you're about to cry," she elaborates, shifting her weight.

"My hydrangeas," Phil croaks. He is literally holding ashes in his hands. He stares at his palms. Stares at Skye. "My—."

"Hydrangeas. I know, boss man. It's hard." She helps him stand, carefully turning his hands over and sending his flowers' ashes to the ground. "Maybe you should talk to Sam?"

She's probably joking, but Phil is totally going to do that. After he cries in his office for a bit. Okay, he plans on crying for the rest of the day.

_His fucking hydrangeas._

**...**

Maria is not here for angry, rich, white parents to call and bitch about the minor explosion on campus. As vice-principal, she is supposed to wander the halls and scare kids into getting to class on time and respecting the dress code. Not—

"No, I know Mrs. Brigg."

"_We pay twenty thousand in tuition to ensure that this sort of stuff doesn't happen!_"

"I understand, ma'am; this was an unfortunate accident—."

"_It sounds more like negligence, if you ask me!_"

Maria reaches over to mute the phone call. _No one fucking asked you, Patrice. _Leaning back in her chair, she sighs. Phil's in the next office, sobbing; Mel is running damage control. She thinks that Tori is probably yelling at Stark about endangering the students, the school, and his job. God, they're all a hot mess.

"_Ms. Hill, Shield's lack of care is appalling and—_."

Closing her eyes, Maria breathes in deeply before she reaches out and unmutes the headset. "I know, Mrs. Brigg. It is unfortunate."

**...**

Hydra gets a hold of the story. God knows how, but they do. And that means that the media gets a hold of the story.

They lose half the kindergarten class, and a handful of seventh graders, and Tony has the decency to look ashamed.

Phil builds a shrine (_"It's not a shrine, Skye, it's a memorial—"_) to his hydrangeas.

It's only a little weird.


	5. Chapter 4

**(i know its been like two months pls dont hate me)**

**disclaimed**

* * *

**...**

Skye's utterly convinced it's too early.

Grant hands her a mug of coffee and kisses her cheek, throws open the blinds. Skye kind of regrets marrying him. If she'd have known about his weird love of mornings…

"It's not even light out, Grant," she whines, setting the mug on the side table in favor of smashing her face into a pillow.

"You were the one that said she wanted to shave."

Blindly, she sticks her arm under the covers and groped her leg. Oh god. Okay. Getting up. Grant follows her to the bathroom, and Skye tries to tug him into the shower with her.

"Skye," he says firmly, batting her hands away. "I'm already dressed."

She glances down. Christ—

she's not sure when he gets up, but it has to be at, like, three. Except for that one time when he had food poisoning—which was kind of disgusting, but he also slept in until two in the afternoon and spent most of that weekend wandering around the house, whining at various decibels.

But—

still.

She naked, she's hot, she has admittedly furry legs—

"Grant," she whines, pouting. "It's Monday. And early." She pouts some more and—

"Twenty minutes," he reminds, unbuttoning his shirt hastily. Skye grins and leans up to kiss him. "We're going to have cereal," he warns against her lips. "Milkless cereal."

"Cool."

**...**

They finally get out the door, to the car. By the time they'd gotten out of the shower, Grant had stated they didn't even have time for cereal, and Skye had resigned herself to one of Hunter's weird breakfast concoctions.

And then they hit traffic, which is dumb and weird and annoying, because they're still technically in that sweet spot before rush hour, so Skye thinks that they should be in the clear, you know? Whatever.

Grant flexes his hands on the wheel, taps his fingers against the leather. To be fair, it's sort of Skye's fault that they're sort of late, so she blasts the radio and sings every word to Blank Space, badly, pen click and all, just to see Grant smile—which—_worth it_.

He relaxes, after that, and keeps shooting her these lovestruck looks that make her blush—they've been married for two years, together for four, but he's still so sweet, so pleased when he gets her to smile, gets her to laugh and just _wow_, okay, Skye really lucked out.

Cars aren't moving at all, so Skye starts to check her email, thumbing open her schedule last second to check what section she's teaching first and she groans. Guttural, pit of her stomach groan because she fucking hates the junior section of tech, mainly because there's this one fucking kid—

"Juniors?" Grant asks, reaching over to take her free hand in his. Skye nods. "You can't throw staples at them."

She snorts at the absurdity of the statement, and at the fact that he completely read her mind, and whines, "But Johnny."

Grant makes a face.

Johnny McMillan and his family were infamous at Shield, known for Johnny's antics in the classroom and his parents' tendency to scream at any teacher that implied that their son was anything less than perfect. And because Johnny hadn't ever attempted anything that was even slightly dangerous to the student body, the school couldn't ever kick him out.

Sometimes, Skye was tempted to frame him for something, anything, just to get him out of her class. Because he was such a fucking _dick_.

"Still," Grant says. "No staples."

Skye wheedles, "But what about Expo markers?"

"Erasers," he concedes, flashing her a grin that makes her melt.

Okay.

She takes that as complete and total permission to blame him if she snaps and chucks an Expo eraser at her student's head.

**...**

When they finally get to campus, they're technically running late. Not for school, but for Grant's insane prep time requirement. He likes getting there at seven, when drop off doesn't even start until eight.

Before they got together, she knows for a fact he would get to school at 6:30am, because one day she staked out the campus to figure out the crazy hot mysteriously prompt history teacher.

She thinks that this is a crazy big compromise on his part.

When they arrive, there are only a few other cars in the lot—May (as always), Coulson (required), Nat, and a handful of lower school teachers. Skye is shuffling around in her purse, looking for her lip gloss, when Fitzsimmons arrives.

Jemma beams at her, because, like, Skye's ninety percent sure that Jemma is actually a fairy that loves the morning or something—Fitz grumbles something to Grant as he slides out of the car.

"Hey Jem," Skye greets, kicking her door open wide. Jemma chirps out a greeting in response, moving to gather a stack of papers from the backseat. They walk in together, the four of them, before splitting off—Fitzsimmons to the STEM wing, and Skye trails Grant to his classroom in the humanities department.

She doesn't have to teach until second period, and it's kind of fun to watch Grant bustle around his room, setting out books and papers, writing the agenda on the board every day because, unlike her, he's kind of a superhero of a teacher. Not to say that Skye isn't good at what she does—she's just a bit less organized. Rarely, if ever, is there an agenda on her whiteboard.

(there is, however, usually a lovely cartoon detailing the life of a famous coder)

"What chapter are you on?" Skye asks, reaching for Grant's copy of one of the history texts. _History of the Modern Age_. Boring.

"Ah—," Grant starts, glancing over at the book in her hands. "Three. The first world war."

Even more boring.

She places it back on the immaculate pile, in the top right corner of her husband's desk. It's really—sometimes she wonders how in the world they work. Because he's so—and she's so—

It's mindboggling sometimes. A lot of the times. But—don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

Grant continues on his little laps around the classroom, straightening papers and emptying sharpeners into the trash. Small things—getting ready for the day. "What section is your first?" She should be better at this. Grant has all but memorized her schedule—knows when she's teaching what, knows when it's a good time for him to pull her out to make out in the supply closet on the third floor.

He glances at the sheet of paper he's tacked up in the corner. "Freshmen. Advanced."

Skye nods. She actually really likes teaching freshmen—the younger grades seem to be a lot less dickish, really. Granted, they all stink, either from a lack of knowledge of body odor or an excess of Juicy body spray and Axe. But—she's never felt the urge to hurl an Expo eraser at any fourteen year old. So there's that.

She really likes her art classes so much more than her tech classes. God.

The clock hand nears eight, all very suddenly, and Skye stands, wiping her palms on her jeans. "I'll let you get to it," she murmurs, shooting a grin in her husband's direction.

"M'kay," Grant leans in to kiss her. "Lunch here?"

Skye pulls out her phone. She has a free, right before lunch. She offers, "Do you want me to pick something up?"

Shaking his head, Grant says giddily, "No— Hunter's making tater tots."

"Oh, shit, never mind then." Lance Hunter's tater tots are legendary—_legendary_ at Shield. It's—oh god. Skye's literally so excited. Her hands might be shaking.

A glance at the door sends her reaching for her bag; there's about five kids out there, trying their hardest to make it seem like they're not staring at their teachers. "I'll see you at lunch, babe," Skye says finally, nodding towards the windows. Grant grins at his kids, waves them in, and Skye greets those that she knows, smiles at the ones that she doesn't.

Her classroom is in the STEM wing as well, which, she's kind of grossly annoyed by. Half the time, her class has to evacuate because one of the science classes made something explode or created some sort of toxic/highly dangerous gas or weapon. Coulson really should regulate them more, honestly.

Angie Torres is sitting in the hallway leading to her classroom, leaning up against lockers as she taps her pen on the notebook in her lap. Angie is, honest to god, Skye's favorite student. _Ever_. She's one of those great kids that listens to instructions and asks relevant questions and makes minimal sexual innuendos. God bless.

"Hey Angie," she greets, digging through her purse for her keys to unlock the classroom.

"Hi, Miss Skye!" the girl responds, scrambling to her feet and shoving her notebook into her bag. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about my coding project?"

Skye swallows the sigh that threatens to sound. No such thing as a free period at Shield.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Grant sort of hates giving pop quizzes, but he knows that it's also the only way to ensure that his classes do the required reading. So, he brushes off the groans from the freshmen as he passes out the papers, reminding them to use pencil—

"I'm not sure if you all are aware, but pen smudges all over the place." _Especially when you're drawing dicks all over the sheet. _Considering the snickers at the back of the room, he figures they're aware.

Just as he's about to reprimand Troy and Jon for talking during a quiz, the door bursts open. Shelley Brigg—one of Grant's favorite students, if he's being honest—has some green slime in her hair and is breathing hard as she gasps out, "Um, yeah—so, Dr. Morse's bio lab is, um, growing? Like, it's probably going to be walking soon, so we need to evacuate the campus, okay, bye!"

She takes off running down the hall, and Grant hears another classroom door be thrown open. Shelley should really learn how to gently open doors.

But.

First things first.

"Okay," he says calmly, gesturing for his students to follow his evacuation plan (helpfully posted on the whiteboard). "You all get A's." A few of the boys whoop—Maya groans from the back of the classroom. "Grab your things, guys," he reminds them, eyeing a few bags left on the floor.

He figures that the evacuation isn't too serious, since the alarms aren't—that's when the alarms go off, because why not?

"Alright you guys," he shouts over the shrieking of the alarm. "We need to move." His students start to move towards the door, pairing up as per the plan, and he does a head count as they move past—

17, 18, 19, 20. Awesome.

All here, all calm. Double awesome.

"Alright," he yells. "Stay with your partner!"

"MR. WARD," someone shrieks from near the front.

Grant double checks his headcount as he scrambles to the front of the group. All twenty—

"What is it? What's wrong?"

A very panicked—eighth grader? Very small ninth grader?—whips around, eyes frantic. He has some green slime in his hair too. "Fitzsimmons are trapped in Dr. Simmons's lab," the kid—Grant recognizes him from Skye's art class—pants, hands on knees, doubled over. "Miss Skye went to help them and—."

Alright.

Um.

"Also the creature is walking, so."

"Maya!" Grant yells, eternally grateful when the girl immediately responds, whipping around and dragging her partner with her. The sea of students continues to surge around them, alarms shrieking, so he shouts over the din, "Lead the class to our muster, okay? I have to go make sure everyone gets out alright."

Maya nods, gripping Dany's hand tightly, white knuckled, and she walks away with purpose, stance strong. Grant doesn't think he's ever been more proud of a student, and he's tempted to yell that after her.

But—

uh. First things first.

The tide of the evacuation is strong, but Grant is also a good foot taller than most of the evacuees, so he cuts a path to the STEM wing quickly. The odor of Bobbi's monstrosity precedes it, but the sight of it causes Grant to pause.

It's vaguely humanoid—

if humans had three arms and one giant leg.

It emits a fluorescent green shine, lighting up the now dim hallway, and it easily takes up at least two third of the walkway. Grant glances to the right—Skye's classroom door is thrown open, which, yeah, that's like her. Her friends were in danger, so she would totally run out and—

he glances back to the creature, still ignoring him.

And then she would definitely scramble into Simmons's classroom to take shelter.

"Hey," Grant yells, grabbing a stray pencil case from the floor and chucking it at the experiment. "Hey you moss…thing!" The creature rounds on him, faceless, and growls. "Uh." He looks over his shoulder and assesses his surroundings. The stairwell should be empty by now, yeah? "Look at me!" he repeats, beginning to back down the hallway.

He sees Skye's face in the window of Simmons's door. She grins at him, throws a thumbs up and blows a kiss. Grant feels his cheeks pink.

"You dumb fungi!" he taunts, waving his arms and picking up his pace.

He can hear Fitz—or Simmons, maybe—yell from the classroom, "It's not fungus!"

Which—

really?

There's some more yelling about its _classification as a plant, really_, which is making it very hard for Grant to actually fucking distract the experiment gone wrong, as it keeps looking towards whatever is making the most sound.

Exasperated, he makes a series of complicated hand gestures in the general direction of the lab—he can hear Fitzsimmons's cries of confusion, but Skye will understand that he needs the science puppies to just _be quiet_, for, like, ten seconds. Just long enough to get this _thing_ away.

"Moss boy!" he yells again. "Or girl! Moss person!" The thing follows his voice, moving at a glacial pace, but eventually he gets it into the staircase. Sidestepping, Grant shoves the creature further into the stairwell, ignoring the way it oozes over his hands—that's probably not toxic, right?

When it's far enough down, he slams shut the emergency doors, which, yeah, he's not entirely sure how to lock the STEM doors, but that thing probably can't work handles, right?

_Right_?

"Hey!" Skye calls, as she and Fitzsimmons run out into the hall. "You're not dead!"

"Yeah?!" Grant laughs, raising his hands for her to see the glowing slime that coats them. His wife makes a face; Simmons makes a noise of disapproval, hurrying over to inspect his appendages.

"Uh—," Fitz starts, glancing behind Grant, and—aw, shit. He hears the rattling handles before he turns, but then, yeah, the moss-being is definitely figuring out doors, so they should probably not be here when it does.

"Okay," Grant sighs, spreading his arms wide to herd the trio. Skye tucks herself against his side, unfazed by the glowing goo he currently sports. "Let's move, people."

Simmons is still fussing over his hands and arguing with Fitz in turn, and Fitz keeps shooting nervous looks at the stairwell as they retreat to the stairs at the opposite end of the STEM wing. "That was pretty hot, what you did back there," Skye murmurs as they hustle down the hall, swinging a right to loop to the back of the building. "All Indiana Jones-y, rushing in to save your love," she swoons, grinning.

"I do what I can." That sounds cool, right? Should he still be worried about sounding cool? Like—they're married, and she's definitely seen him _not cool_, like when their honeymoon got sort of cancelled by a hurricane, so—

Skye rolls her eyes. "It was the coolest," she assures him. "You're the coolest."

Grant pauses, leaning down to kiss her, but then the monster groans—roars, really, and Fitz shrieks, and they should maybe hurry.

It roars again.

_Yeah_, Grant thinks, shoving everyone into the stairway in front of him and slamming the latches into place on the doors. _We should definitely hurry._

* * *

**...**

* * *

Eventually, the moss creature is neutralized by some sort of foul smelling aerosol that Bruce throws Vic as she charges into the building, and Bobbi keeps a sample of it in a jar on her desk, which, really, Phil _highly_ disapproves of, _because that's a fucking safety hazard, Morse_.

Classes go back before lunch, and Grant and Skye get their tater tots (Bobbi does not, because her husband is vindictive and upset that his chicken fillets burned while the school got evacuated).

Shelley goes in to make up some French Revolution quizzes for her favorite teacher, Mr. Ward, and rushes out after muttering, "How the hell am I supposed to concentrate when Skyeward is so fucking cute," under her breath when Miss Skye throws a tater tot into Mr. Ward's mouth.

"What was that, Shelley?" Miss Skye asks innocently, eyebrows raised. Shelley's mouth hangs open for a moment—

finally, in lieu of an answer, she makes a high pitched noise, throws her half-finished quiz into the quiz basket on the corner of Mr. Ward's desk and runs for it, because, _jesus, Shell, get your fucking act together._

* * *

**...**

* * *

**fun fact: shelley brigg hardcore ships skyeward and, before they got together, made bets with other students about when they would get over themselves and make out **

**(she made like three hundred dollars okay i have put a lot of thought into this fucking au hELP ME)**


End file.
